


an ocean apart

by Togaki



Series: the space between us [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, MSBY Black Jackals - Freeform, Open Ending, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:41:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26320585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Togaki/pseuds/Togaki
Summary: Atsumu smiled at him; Kiyoomi grimaced.He said hello; Kiyoomi ignored him and walked away.Then in a turn that absolutely nobody but Kiyoomi was surprised by, Atsumu slung his arm around the wing spiker’s shoulder as if they were two best friends just having a wonderful conversation.Out of shock and with a hell of a lot of spite, Kiyoomi kicked Atsumu straight in the groin, knocking all the life out of him in more ways than one.Needless to say, they didn’t leave the best first impressions on each other.Kiyoomi has lived his whole life keeping others at a distance, but all of that starts to change when Miya Atsumu begins inching his way in.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: the space between us [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1912507
Comments: 36
Kudos: 245





	an ocean apart

**Author's Note:**

> I fell in love with SakuAtsu, and this is my addition to the fandom. Enjoy the ramblings of a madwoman.

The first time they met, it had been on opposite sides of the court during a junior high game where both of their teams had made it to nationals. Kiyoomi had taken one look from across the net at the raging, blond-headed boy throwing a fist at his ashen-haired, mirror look-alike before both of them were prematurely pulled out of the set in the second game, and he knew from that moment on that he’d make it his goal to avoid Miya Atsumu at all costs.

Except the next time the two met, it had been precisely one year later at the youth training camp, and the previously short punk had shot up in height, dyed his hair to an uglier shade of mustard, and instead of arrogance multiplied by fists, Kiyoomi witnessed arrogance multiplied by sweet-honey words that dripped from the boy’s tongue like he had syrup a plenty. 

Atsumu smiled at him; Kiyoomi grimaced. 

He said hello; Kiyoomi ignored him and walked away.

Then in a turn that absolutely nobody but Kiyoomi was surprised by, Atsumu slung his arm around the wing spiker’s shoulder as if they were two best friends just having a wonderful conversation.

Out of shock and with a hell of a lot of spite, Kiyoomi kicked Atsumu straight in the groin, knocking all the life out of him in more ways than one. 

Needless to say, they didn’t leave the best first impressions on each other.

* * *

The day Kiyoomi showed up at try-outs nearly a decade later, he saw the blond asshole chatting away with the captain in the corner, while a slew of candidates, including himself, awaited their turn to show off their range of abilities with the team’s second stringers.

Receiving, tossing, spiking—along with serving and playing scrimmages. They ran around doing a bunch of drills and by the end of it, it was pretty obvious who was in good standing with the coach. Kiyoomi had been the MVP for all four years at the college division, so it was no surprise the Jackals wanted to pick him up. 

But of course, being the dramatic brat he was, Atsumu strutted up to Kiyoomi after the end of tryouts as the spiker was on the bench zipping up his duffel bag, a challenge dangling between the curl of his lips.

Atsumu had the nerve to wear a saccharine smile that both of them knew was completely fake. High school spite died hard.

“As the first-string setter”— _Oh boy_ , Kiyoomi thought, holding back the urge to roll his eyes—“we should get along.”

The man was only doing this because it was obvious to anyone with eyes that Kiyoomi would be joining the team. Still, it tickled his ego a little to see even Atsumu acknowledging that. 

As a delegate of his welcoming party—or perhaps the volunteer to his _hazing_ was more like it—Atsumu forced Kiyoomi back onto the court so he could spike a few sets with the setter personally. _To check their compatibility_ , as Atsumu had sweetly put it. Kiyoomi interpreted that as code for _let’s maul the new guy._

Except, there had been no hazing or mauling. Just beautiful, perfect tosses that made Kiyoomi inhale with pleasure every time he landed on his feet after spiking a solid ball. 

Atsumu cockily placed his hands on his hips as if to say, _Well? In love with me yet?_

The answer was no. Kiyoomi was not in love with Atsumu yet. He hadn’t sunk so low as to start fawning over an animal, even if the animal had become slightly more mature with the years, morphing from a delinquent yankee with bad hair into a decently presentable adult with still bad hair.

But he did offer one thing to the setter, at least. If not because Atsumu deserved it, then because it would suck to start off with the team on the wrong foot.

“You’ve got some nasty sets,” Kiyoomi said, flexing his wrists as he stared straight at the setter.

At that, Atsumu preened, and Kiyoomi couldn’t tell whether the skip in his heart was because it was a sign that he had arrhythmia and needed to be hurried to the hospital stat, or if it was because he had liked the prideful expression on Atsumu’s face. 

He didn’t dwell long on it as he exited the gym, although he did make a stop at the hospital on his way back home.

* * *

The team liked to go out for dinners post-games on victory nights. They made it a habit to head to a bar, or an izakaya, or both if they were nearby each other—and they were _always_ nearby each other—where they’d ultimately charge the club’s credit card with a bill large enough to tick off a few staff members and sponsors afterwards. 

Out of obligation, Kiyoomi had attended the first few. Bokuto liked to crowd in close, encouraging Kiyoomi to drink more, to which the latter would graciously accept the liquor before slyly replacing it with Tomas’ empty cup next to him and pretending like he had actually drunk it all—poor Tomas was always so drunk by the end of these functions. Hinata, on the other hand, rarely liked to drink, instead choosing to engorge himself on meat and others’ company as he buzzed between groups and tables. And since he thrived on reciprocation, and because Bokuto loved loud attention, Kiyoomi was somehow always crammed between the two most blindingly bright human beings on the earth as they talked over him—and because Motoya could swear Kiyoomi was born part-vampire, the blinding brightness whittled away at his rapidly dwindling lifespan. 

Or maybe it was his patience. Same thing.

Point was, he stopped attending after his obligatory “newbie” period had lost all its novelty with the team and he became just another player who abhorred being crowded in tight, claustrophobic places like the ones the team always chose to go to. 

Such was a night like tonight, where after a home game victory against the Tachibana Red Falcons, the team decided to celebrate with booze and fried food, giving their nutritionist a heart attack in the process. 

Instead of trailing behind the rest of the team like a sad and lost puppy, Kiyoomi turned on his heel and speed walked in the _opposite_ direction on the sidewalk toward home, ignoring the cheers and hollers from the large group of men he desperately wanted no association with.

Sadly, being a player in a _team_ sport, there was always somebody who noticed when you were gone.

There was a knock on his apartment door at half past midnight which Kiyoomi did not want to answer. He ignored it for a few solid seconds, thinking maybe the person would get his drift if he didn’t immediately respond back with a verbal reply, but after a few seconds of silence, the knocking came back with greater force and a constant, irritating stream that had Kiyoomi grinding his teeth.

In Tokyo, the likelihood of it being a murderer was low; in Osaka, the chances of it being a murderer were also low. But did he want to take that chance? No. Yet he got up anyway.

He snarled as he answered the door for the potential murderer. “What do you want?”

He had already taken a shower, put away his laundry, read a book, took another shower, and was halfway to sleep with his eye mask on, and now he probably needed to scrub himself clean _again_ after opening the door for all the free-flying contagions outside to filter in.

“Ah! Ya finally answered, Omi-Omi!”

He slammed the door.

Unfortunately, Atsumu had exceedingly fast reflexes and caught the heavy door by the sole of his foot. “Um, ow.” 

He should have slammed it harder. 

Then the rational side of him kicked in. Because no, if he did that, then he might break Atsumu’s foot, and foot injuries lasted at least a few months, which meant they would have to pull up a second-string setter and while he could work with their very capable second-string setter (and he meant capable _and_ less annoying), the sing of Atsumu’s tosses just felt better, so no, he couldn’t break Atsumu’s foot no matter how large the urge was.

Sighing, Kiyoomi inched the door open just a little wider to give Atsumu’s foot space to breathe. Atsumu took that as an invitation to barge inside his home.

“Yer so mean, Omi-kun!” Atsumu whined, kicking off his shoes haphazardly by the entrance like they were slippers, padding across the living room floor swinging around a plastic bag filled with tiny containers and bringing it into Kiyoomi’s kitchen as if he was a frequent guest. He wasn’t. And he wouldn’t ever be. Especially not with that awful nickname. “And here I am, bein’ the nice one and bringin’ ya food.”

Atsumu rummaged through Kiyoomi’s fridge, and all Kiyoomi could think about was how he’d have to disinfect his food, his floors—and _himself—_ after he kicked Atsumu out in approximately three, two, one—

Atsumu popped his head up from behind the fridge door, his eyes glossy and his cheeks tinged pink. 

“Are you _drunk_ , Miya?” Kiyoomi asked, visibly astonished.

The setter rarely drank. He had said it was because he didn’t want to end up with a future gut like the rest of the team would inevitably someday, but it was more obvious by the way he maintained himself and dedicated himself religiously to his body that volleyball was always on his mind first and foremost. And begrudgingly, Kiyoomi could respect that. 

What he couldn’t respect, however, was the drunk Atsumu currently slobbering inside his kitchen. 

Atsumu grinned and bit his bottom lip as he held up his index finger and thumb together. “Maybe just a little,” he said, giggling as he shut the fridge on whatever leftovers he had scrounged to bring back. 

Kiyoomi cursed violently underneath his breath. He wasn’t sure what a drunk Atsumu was like, but he sure as hell hoped it wasn’t as bad as a normal Atsumu.

The man stumbled across the floor and flopped onto his couch like a rag. 

Oh, he was _definitely_ worse.

“Bokkun kept eggin’ me on, and Shouyou-kun kept givin’ me those damn, twinkly eyes. How the hell do eyes even sparkle like that,” Atsumu murmured, burying his face deeper into Kiyoomi’s couch pillow. Looks like that one’s going in the incinerator.

“So you succumbed to peer pressure is what you’re saying,” Kiyoomi said, rustling through a new pack of nitrile gloves on his keystand as he put a pair on. If he was throwing a drunk Atsumu out, then he would make sure he at least didn’t have to touch him.

He found it weird, though, that Atsumu would choose to drink, peer pressure or not. And on a night when he wasn’t there, of all times. 

Towering over where Atsumu splayed out shamelessly on the couch, shirt ridden up and head thrown back in a sleepy daze, Kiyoomi grabbed his ankles and _yanked._

Atsumu clung onto the opposite armrest like Kiyoomi was sucking the soul out of him.

“Out, Miya, _out_ ,” Kiyoomi said, pulling at the man as if he were a twisty, little feline. His patience had long worn out with the setter since they first met ten years ago.

After a few rough tugs where it became startlingly apparent Atsumu wouldn’t budge no matter how much lower body strength Kiyoomi put into it, he dropped his ankles and glared. Hard.

Atsumu held on for dear life, nails clawed into the leather couch like he planned on leaving marks. Yet when it was clear that he was no longer in danger of getting yanked again, he relaxed, loosening his grip as he shifted for a more comfortable position as if the couch was his bed and not Kiyoomi’s last shreds of sanity.

“That part of ya hasn’t changed one bit, Omi,” Atsumu mumbled, facedown. The words came out muffled. “Really hate that about ya. Always pushin’ people away. Never sayin’ hello. Yer so rude.”

Kiyoomi huffed, crossing his arms. “I can be as rude as I want. You’re the one who trespassed.”

“Wouldn’t… kill ya… to…” Atsumu murmured before drifting off. He snored softly.

Kiyoomi sighed.

There was a reason he kept people at a distance, boxed inside little squares and locked behind shut doors with no key to get inside. For one, he hated germs, and people naturally came with them. And two, he hated people. 

They were pushy and had preconceived notions about the world and about others. It wasn’t hard to guess why these things bothered Kiyoomi, and Atsumu being who he was, it meant that the pair were as complimentary as the negative ends on two sticks of magnets. 

He’d grown up working with a limited amount of space given his disposition, and after years of carving out room for himself and room for a life that he could reasonably work with, there was no space left for anybody else. And certainly not somebody who thought it was okay to barge into his apartment at half past midnight on a weeknight reeking of alcohol.

After a long, scorching shower that night, he barricaded himself in his room, re-emerging groggily from his den only sometime after dawn. There was no note, no body, and no pillow out of place on his couch (though of course he’d still clean the entire thing top-down later that day because he didn’t trust Atsumu to have done any of that, and if he did, to have done it _well)_ to indicate that the previous night had even happened. 

The only thing left behind was the bag of food in the fridge when he opened the door that morning. 

Surprisingly, it wasn’t leftovers like he thought; rather, it had been ordered specifically for takeout, like Atsumu had planned to include Kiyoomi all along. 

With the redaction of incinerating his favorite couch pillow in favor of giving it a deep-soak cleansing later on, he savored smoked salmon for breakfast that morning.

* * *

Kiyoomi wasn’t great with people. His default was to be sour and prickly, and he knew this about himself; it was his trademark, after all. Still, it wasn’t exactly great to hear that from management as they called him in that morning before the away game in Tokyo.

 _“You’re a good player, Sakusa, but you know_ — _Try to loosen up a little. It’ll appeal more to the fans.”_

What on earth did “loosening up” even mean? Signing more autographs? He already put up with touching the same paper that had once been in the paws of grubby, little kids’ hands. Smiling for the cameras? He possessed few facial muscles to begin with. Did they want him to go up to fans and start chatting with them like they were friendly next-door neighbors that, no, he did not accidentally just scowl at? He wasn’t like Hinata who could maintain any kind of conversation with earnest and steadfast attention, nor was he like Atsumu, who instead of talking casually his style was more flirting/borderline sexual harassment which had caused management headaches on several occasions. 

He was also not about to become like Bokuto and start performing somersaults everytime he walked on the court. He was one hundred percent positive that management would understand.

But still, he liked having a job, so immediately following the game that day when he would normally be heading straight back to the bus after finishing his cool-down stretches, he instead stood stiff at the away team’s visitors courtside area. On the other side of the railing, there was a kid who obviously looked like he wanted Kiyoomi’s autograph—he held an autograph plate and pen as he stared wide-eyed back at Kiyoomi’s pinched face—and Kiyoomi thought back to management’s earlier request to “loosen up.” 

“Hey, you,” Kiyoomi said, trying his best not to scowl at the thought of all the germs that must be on the autograph plate by now. It was probably grimy from palm sweat. The kid stood at immediate attention, like he was a new recruit in the military and Kiyoomi was his commanding officer. “Give me that.”

Of course, Kiyoomi being who he was, the offer did not sound like a kid’s childhood role model being so generous as to gift a once-in-a-lifetime signature, but it instead came out like a growl, sour, and a bit like he wanted to spit on the kid’s shoe. 

So what did the kid do? 

As it turned out, it was incredibly possible for children to start bawling without a sound.

Fat tears rolled down the kid’s cheeks, and the kid stood as still as a statue as if he was afraid that any sudden movement might cause Kiyoomi to suddenly swipe at him with bear claws. If it weren’t for the fact that the kid’s face wasn’t turning purple yet, he’d be worried that he wasn’t breathing.

Kiyoomi, the great people whisperer and even greater child whisperer, wanted to die.

The two of them probably stayed like that, deadlocked in a shocking stare-off, for approximately thirty long seconds before Atsumu’s obnoxious laugh cut through the air, which then made Kiyoomi feel less like dying himself and more like mentally preparing the best ways to get away with suffocating Atsumu with a pillow in his sleep.

Atsumu wiped a stray tear from his eye as he entered the scene, a hand on his stomach and his smile stretched as wide as a baseball field. 

“Jeez, Omi-Omi, and I thought Ushijima was bad!” 

It sickened him to think that a name like Wakatoshi’s was being uttered by some lowly vermin.

“Let’s see you do any better,” Kiyoomi taunted, crossing his arms. 

In other words: _you deal with it._

A few terrible jokes, some high fives, an autograph, and one newly inaugurated Miya-fan later, the kid was in bounding spirits as he happily skipped off, forgetting all about Kiyoomi’s utter failure of human interaction.

He scoffed at the play, disgruntled that it had taken the likes of _Atsumu_ to clean up his mess. But honestly, it just cemented in his mind that the two were as opposite as ever. 

Atsumu was good with people; Kiyoomi wasn’t. 

Atsumu was a magnet; Kiyoomi was a repellant. 

The setter grinned at him charmingly as he said, “How was that, Omi-Omi? Didja jot down a few notes?”

“Yes. Apparently children are more receptive to others of their kind,” Kiyoomi replied drily.

Atsumu raised a fist at him, but it was so non-threatening Kiyoomi rolled his eyes. “I ain’t a kid!”

 _No, but you_ _certainly_ act _like one._

“I’m surprised you didn’t make things worse by telling him to shut up,” Kiyoomi said, recalling all of the incidents in high school where Atsumu glared at his fans in the crowd for cheering during his serve. He always knew he was arrogant—it was just nice to have concrete proof filed away for blackmail.

“Oh, trust me, I wanted to,” Atsumu said, and the two started walking toward the bench to grab their bags. Kiyoomi’s ears perked up. “I can’t stand emotional twerps the most, but, well, ‘s’not like I enjoy gettin’ told off by Meian or ‘Samu all the time. It’s not that bad, anyways. Just call ‘em ‘champ’ or some shit, and they’ll look at ya with gold in their eyes for the rest of their lives.”

The setter shoved his dirty towel into his sports bag without even folding it, but somehow, Kiyoomi didn’t feel all that disgusted. 

He was more… surprised? 

In the time that Kiyoomi’s been on this team, Atsumu had never once shown that being with his fans was a nuisance. He always went out of his way to make them feel warm and invited, like a home-cooked family dinner. Kiyoomi had just assumed Atsumu underwent a paradigm-shift between high school and the professional league given his change in demeanor, but this Atsumu wasn’t actually all that different from the mustard-haired brat whose balls he kicked back when they met for only the second time ten years ago. 

Atsumu cocked his head. He raised an eyebrow as he pulled out his water bottle. 

“What? Did a soul reaper get ya or somethin’? Yer starin’ off into space.”

Swinging his bag over his shoulder, Kiyoomi mumbled a soft response into the collar of his jacket, so small he might as well have said nothing.

“Thanks.”

Atsumu’s grin was all teeth as he pointed his water bottle at him. He hated that he thought the expression suited him. 

“So what I’m hearin’ is: we’re even for the other night.”

Kiyoomi scowled. Whatever smidge of feeling that had started to form for the setter had evaporated in a single second upon the memory of Atsumu’s drunken self. 

“No,” Kiyoomi said, speed walking away. “And you owe me for the hotel and cleaning fee.”

Atsumu chased after him, his stuff falling out of his bag like a magicians’ endless stream of scarves as he scrambled to zip it up. 

“Wait, hold on! Yer kiddin’ me!”

“Nope,” Kiyoomi said, without even a sliver of remorse as he glanced back.

For the first time, he noticed how nice Atsumu’s crinkled eyes-like-smiles looked.

* * *

“Leave,” Kiyoomi hissed, refraining from slamming the door out of consideration from a previous nights’ revelation that he liked a certain setter’s tosses more than he cared to admit. However, that did not mean he refrained from bluntly stating how he felt about a certain setter’s personality. “I hate you,” he said, specifically to the blond-headed asshole standing directly in front of his door, but also as a general statement for the current populace of three loitering in front of his apartment, the group consisting of Germ 1, Germ 2, and Germ ½ because Hinata was just that tiny.

Atsumu clicked his tongue, wagging his finger like some sleazy salesperson. “Ya say that, but yer eyes tell a different story,” Atsumu said, winking. 

Kiyoomi was unimpressed. “Yes. They’re saying _get out of the door frame or I’ll call the cops_.”

Before Kiyoomi could make good on that promise by reaching for his phone, Hinata sprang three feet up in the air, shoving Atsumu out of the way.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Hinata shouted, like Kiyoomi was about to cut the red wire of a ticking time bomb instead of the blue. How tempting. “Don’t listen to ‘Tsumu-san! He doesn’t know what he’s talking about!”

“Hey!”

He never listened to Atsumu, so this wasn’t exactly new. He did, however, enjoy the nasty look Atsumu gave Hinata in response. 

Eying the redhead, he found himself a tad bit more open to hearing them out. “So what do you want?”

“Let’s go out!” Bokuto chirped, as peppy as a cheerleader. 

“No,” he said, and he started closing the door on Hinata’s foot. They had Barnes—they could live without Hinata on the court for a few months.

But like a rash he just couldn’t quite get rid of, Atsumu snuck up once again, jamming his hand this time between the frame and the door. 

Breaking a foot meant that Kiyoomi would have to wait out the long healing period before Atsumu could return back with his sets; breaking a hand meant the possibility of never feeling the sweet sting of his favorite tosses the same way again. 

It was unforgivable how Atsumu always managed to tip the scale in his favor.

With no easy exit in sight, Kiyoomi sighed and slipped on his winter jacket, giving in as he watched as Bokuto’s and Hinata’s excitement maxed out through the roof. They bounced giddily on the balls of their feet as all four of them descended the apartment complex’s slippery stairs. 

“Where are we even going?” Kiyoomi said, exhaling into the pocket of his mask. His face felt warm and sticky while his bare ears froze from the biting breeze.

While Bokuto and Hinata had raced out in front, Atsumu had hung back, and for some reason was glowing in Kiyoomi’s antisocial company.

“It’s yer fault, ya know? Ya stopped showin’ up to dinners, so now Bokkun and Shou-kun are obsessed.” 

That wasn’t an answer. But Kiyoomi had a slight understanding of where this was heading. The discomfort settled in his gut like nails. 

“I don’t see why they feel the need to go out of their way,” Kiyoomi bristled, digging his hands deeper in his pockets. 

Cold days like this were better spent in the comfort of his own home where it was warm, safe, and secure. And most of all, where he didn’t have to care about meeting the expectations of people around him, except maybe if Motoya decided today was the day to catch Kiyoomi at the most inconvenient time to lasso him in for a four-hour phone call about his cousin’s latest venture with otome games. However, he didn’t care about Motoya’s expectations of him, so he usually let his potted plants listen to Motoya yammer on about his latest route while he ignored the libero in favor of watching a nature documentary on television. 

Atsumu studied his expression for a time. It was unnerving how Kiyoomi had started paying attention to the setter’s eyes ever since he covered for him with the crying kid, like how he noticed how his irises were always fierce like a lion’s.

Then as he studied his gaze, his eyes would naturally drift to other features of Atsumu’s face. Like how the man had thick eyebrows that thinned at the ends. Or how he had a wide-set jaw that made him look firm and steely. Or the way his lips could curl in mischief or distaste depending on what his mood was like that day. 

He was an unknown quantity to Kiyoomi—one that Kiyoomi swore from day one to never get involved with, yet here they were, nearly a decade later, and it was hard to keep from wanting to unravel the mystery.

Finally, Atsumu spoke, and there was nothing Kiyoomi could decipher in the tone from the normally open-as-a-book man.

“Ya really can’t tell, huh? Well, I guess that’s to be expected with ya,” he said, trudging ahead of Kiyoomi as he shouted for the other two to slow down at the light.

And somehow, Kiyoomi felt like he had just flunked a major test.

* * *

Turned out, motsunabe for lunch was what Bokuto and Hinata had had in mind. They probably figured that if Kiyoomi thought dinner was the problem, then lunch was perfectly acceptable. 

They were wrong. 

But as they were led to the back room—quartered off from all the other guests in the very nice, arguably casual fancy establishment—and he discovered most of his other teammates already seated at the long table chatting together like they _didn’t_ see each other everyday and today happened to be the exception, he noticed that this place was actually _very_ nice.

For one, the room wasn’t small. Even though there were probably 12+ people inside, he could lay out two Hinata’s on any side of the table and he’d have room to spare. Everybody had ample elbow room, so he could count on nobody to accidentally touch him or brush up against him if they were scooting past. What more, since the three of them had gone on ahead, Kiyoomi had the corner seat nearest to the exit all for himself so if things became too suffocating, he could bolt in an instant if he wanted to.

Yet oddly, he didn’t feel the need to plan an exit strategy even as he was assessing all the corners and windows in that private room.

When he had shrugged his jacket off, he was amazed to discover that there were individual hooks on the wall directly behind their seats, so that none of them had to be hung on the same coat rack. And when he sat down, not a single drop of soup or piece of stray lint was on the white table linen. 

White was a comfortable color. It told no lies. 

And the lie was this was too good to be true for a pack of boisterous males with not two brain cells between the lot of them when it came to anything but volleyball. This had to be a set up.

But still, he found himself so comfortable and at ease in the restaurant that he had unconsciously stripped off his mask.

Atsumu whistled beside him. “Well, ain’t that the highest compliment. We can actually see yer face for once.”

“You see my face all the time on the court,” Kiyoomi said, suddenly self-conscious. His cheeks grew warm.

“This is different,” Atsumu said, and the way he said that made Kiyoomi feel tingly.

Meian laughed from the other side of the table. “He’s right! I don’t think we’re treated to this very often. You’re a good-looking guy, Sakusa. It’s such a waste to cover it up all the time.”

Inunaki scoffed as he put his elbows on the table to grumble. “Don’t give him any ideas. About 90% of our female fans already flock to either Miya, Tomas, or Barnes, and Sakusa doesn’t need to steal the rest of our shoddy 10%.”

Tomas smiled even as he tilted his head in innocent confusion and questioned Inunaki’s logic in his broken Japanese. “But Barnes is married?”

“Never stopped anyone before,” Barnes—in all his limbastic glory squeezed into a too-short chair for his frame—quipped, and the whole group laughed.

Kiyoomi had to admit, it was a little strange to see everybody outside of their uniforms or in light better than the dim (frankly cheesy) mood lighting that was somehow always a staple at the bars they frequented. He felt uncomfortable surrounded by all these people who obviously knew each other but who he didn’t know at all, even as they tried to include him in their small banter.

As the server handed out menus, he realized the motsunabe came in small-sized portions in pots meant for individuals rather than a large group like theirs. It was like the team had planned this meal entirely around him.

“We did!” Hinata chirped, slurping a noodle cheerfully once Kiyoomi raised this particular thought of his after they had gotten their food. “Since you seem to hate the places _we_ choose, we decided to go out to a place that _you’d_ like!”

He said that as if it was the most obvious answer in the world for dealing with an antisocial germaphobe. Motoya should take notes.

A pleasant feeling hummed in his chest. He stared down at his beef broth as he let the emotions fetter in like chicks trailing down a line of seeds. His stomach felt full and sated and just absolutely warm inside, and he wasn’t sure what to do.

Should he say thank you? But he didn’t ask for this. Should he tell Hinata he had a chive stuck to his cheek? He really wanted to, so he did. 

Hinata wiped his cheek sloppily with his full arm as if the surface area equated to cleanliness, meanwhile Kiyoomi bit back the urge to lecture him about the function of a napkin—which lasted for all of one strenuous second.

Then, without any provocation, Hinata delivered the news Kiyoomi least expected out of the day: “‘Tsumu-san was _super_ helpful in the planning, so if you liked it, you should tell him so that we can do this again.” And he went straight back to devouring the rest of his nabe as if he hadn’t just delivered a devastating mental blow.

Kiyoomi dropped his spoon in his soup, and the _plup_ was as chilling as the sound of a knife being stabbed through his eye. 

_Atsumu_ has planned this? Atsumu. The same guy who threw tantrums when the fried chicken delivery man showed up five minutes later than the estimated arrival time because the setter had run out of patience. Him. The same guy who showed up drunk and without warning in the middle of the night to crash on your couch with no regard for the cleanliness of his attire or the apartment. _Atsumu_ —the same guy who expected the world to revolve around him when he approached for a serve and dominated the court with the skill to actually back up his Olympic-sized ego. _That_ guy? 

As Kiyoomi turned his head, he found Atsumu already prepared for his gagging retort, wearing a cocky grin as he waggled his eyebrows and cheekily said, “That’s right. Praise me.”

“Are you _crazy?”_

Atsumu frowned, obviously deflated by Kiyoomi’s lack of enthusiasm, and he stabbed at his tofu like it was a cow ready for slaughter.

Okay, so maybe he could have worded that a little better.

He shook his head in disbelief as if somebody had just told him dogs could fly. “I mean, _how?”_

Okay, so that wasn’t really any better, but at least Atsumu’s food was now in less danger of being porcupined to death.

Atsumu waved his chopsticks around like they were a pointer stick. “Oh, ya know me, good ole ‘Tsumu here. Just lookin’ out for his team, lookin’ out for his _friends_ ”—Kiyoomi _really_ did not want to know in what dimension Atsumu had considered their relationship meaningful enough to be catalogued under _friendship_ —“Was just a quick search, really. A couple of phone calls. Some recommendations. And ya know, went through all the fine de- _t_ _ails_.” 

He hated how grating Atsumu made the word “details” sound. It was two syllables, not one syllable and an extra drawl at the end like somebody had sneaked edibles into his dish.

“Oh, really?” Kiyoomi responded drily, not quite buying it.

“He asked ‘Samu-Samu for help,” Bokuto supplied, already finished with his food and thumbing again through the giant menu as if that large, single person portion wasn’t enough to fill his cavernous stomach.

“Hey!”

“Ah,” Kiyoomi said. That made more sense. Leave it to the more sensible Miya to consider all facets of an establishment. But still, the fact that Atsumu had gone through the trouble in the first place made him feel dizzy. Suddenly hit with a bout of shyness, he muttered, “You really don’t need to. Do that for me, I mean.”

Atsumu flipped his hair. He set down his chopsticks. “Well, it ain’t really yer business how I choose to spend my time,” he said, leaning his chin on his palm atop the table. 

No, but it bothered Kiyoomi to know that _was_ how Atsumu chose to spend his time. 

“It’s fine even without having me here. Don’t bother your brother for these kinds of things,” he said, surprisingly skittish.

But really what he meant to say was that this all felt extremely nauseating. All of the thought, the consideration, and the sincerity poured into this one simple outing—it felt strange to be on the receiving end of such kindness without all the looks of pity or disappointment that accompanied by virtue of being who he was. 

And more than that, it was like Atsumu was standing outside the heavy door Kiyoomi had painfully erected to keep others blocked from the little space he had created for himself. Then with all the courtesy missing from that first night the setter had barged into his apartment, dirt and all, Atsumu was patiently waiting to be invited in—in to a place where there had only been enough space for himself previously.

And Kiyoomi wasn’t prepared to answer that door.

With a scrutinizing glint in his eye—the one that was so mysterious and still so unfamiliar to Kiyoomi like the one that had clouded over his expression while walking to the restaurant—Atsumu pursed his lips. 

“It’s not a bad thing, ya know. Gettin’ to know the people who have yer back,” Atsumu said, shrugging. But there was a fond glint in his eyes that betrayed the lack of emotion in his voice. In the short amount of time the man had been here for, how attached had he grown to this offbeat team of theirs? And on an even more astonishing level—which Kiyoomi was loath to actually consider aloud—was he also a part of that? That which drew such a soft expression from the setter? _Could_ he be a part of that? Atsumu tipped his head once before wittily qualifying his response. “Of course, I mean _without_ lookin’ at ‘em as if they just drowned yer cat, that is. I get enough of that on the court.”

“I don’t have a cat,” Kiyoomi said hoarsely. He swallowed, and it went down like too-sweet syrup.

“Course ya don’t,” Atsumu said, scrunching his nose, and somehow, it looked cute.

His heart raced like he had just finished a five-game set against the best team in the world, and his head felt as light as a cloud. Was he having a reaction? Did he need to be hauled to the hospital? Shit. This wasn’t happening.

He clenched the fabric of his pants in his hands, willing his heart rate to slow down. 

“I don’t need to _know_ you to score points, Miya,” he said, wondering vaguely if there was anything in his voice that betrayed the terrifying numbness he felt in his legs and fingers, but seeing how his ears rang incessantly, he wouldn’t be able to tell even if someone had played back a voice recording.

“No,” Atsumu agreed with him, and his stomach sank. Atsumu tapped the table with his finger like he was a judge calling the court to attention, but it wasn’t necessary because he already had Kiyoomi’s, rapt and hungry. “But who knows, the rest of us might. And, well, I know we’ve got our differences—hell, ya kicked me in the sac the first time we met—but, like, yer not that bad, ya know. I figure, as long as we’re teammates, it wouldn’t hurt gettin’ to know _ya_ as well. Just might learn somethin’ new in that cracked head of yers.” 

The world came to a dreadful halt.

Kiyoomi didn’t want to know Atsumu. He couldn’t stand knowing anymore than he already did, because he was afraid it would only be adding fuel to the flame as the only thing currently racing through his head was _holy hell, motsunabe is hot_ and _holy hell,_ Atsumu _is hot._

In that private room filled with his boisterous teammates and the steady puffs of cloud from still-steaming soup, Kiyoomi couldn’t even think of a reply to Atsumu’s sincere gesture, and even after the the lunch was over and the group had broken up and everybody went their separate ways—Bokuto nagging to join Kiyoomi partway before Meian had made him back up to give Kiyoomi space, while all the latter could think of was how to avoid eye contact with one suddenly _very_ attractive Atsumu—he still didn’t have an answer. He just let the unspoken words die on his tongue like a wilting flower as he hunched himself inward and away from the horrifyingly warm world behind him.

The walk home was blisteringly cold as he batted off thoughts of the setter.

Atsumu and his perfect tosses, Atsumu and his grating pushiness, Atsumu and his terrible jokes, Atsumu and his non-existent humility, Atsumu and his cheesy pick-up lines, Atsumu and his fiercely fond nature, Atsumu and his endearing sensitive side, Atsumu and his sweet beautiful smile—Atsumu, Atsumu, Atsumu. 

He slammed the door to his apartment, launching himself into the shower without even thinking about the fact that he should take off his clothes first before scrubbing down the terrible, terrible symptomatic thoughts of Atsumu which spread through his brain like a rash of contagions.

Teenaged Kiyoomi had been right to avoid Miya Atsumu; adult Kiyoomi had made the mistake of getting too close, and now he was paying the price. 

Because, _fuck_ , he just had to go and catch feelings.

* * *

For four straight days, Kiyoomi had achieved the life of an absolute douchebag when it came to Miya Atsumu. 

If Atsumu tried to talk tosses, he’d turn in the other direction and say, “They’re shit. Get better.”

If the setter made a terrible joke while stretching, Kiyoomi would drop him on his ass and pretend like he had taken out the trash.

If the man invited Kiyoomi out with the team once again to a place he thought the wing spiker might enjoy, he’d shut him down and seethe, “Stay in your lane, Miya.”

If he tried to grab the sleeve of Kiyoomi’s jacket as Kiyoomi speed walked away at the end of practice because the wing spiker couldn’t bear looking at Atsumu without falling deeper in love with those eyes he just wanted to melt in while all Atsumu wanted was to know why Kiyoomi insisted on ignoring him and treating him like the epitome of human garbage, he’d return the earnest sentiment tenfold with a scathing glare as he stomped all over the setter’s sincere gesture with a bleeding, _“Don’t_ touch me.” 

And if Kiyoomi had stolen a glance back in all of those instances and saw Atsumu’s back already turned to him in simmering resignation and felt the sting in his chest like pins grazing his skin as he continued walking away, then he ignored it. And even then, the longing to reach out never left him.

It was a small wonder how he had made it this far on spite and delusion alone.

Between all of this, he had plenty of time to ruminate on the apparent, existential crumbling-of-the-world-as-he-knew-it episode of his.

His first rational thought after the first stage of denial had worn off was: _Why Atsumu?_ His second thought after skipping straight to bargaining was: _How do I kill it?_

By “it,” he meant his feelings and not Atsumu, but the second choice grew more enticing with each subsequent day that had passed by with no alteration to his current state of affection for the setter. 

He didn’t have an answer to the second question—his deteriorating mental health attested to the impossibility of the challenge of consciously killing his emotions—and as for the first question, he had even less of a clue.

Truly. Why _Atsumu?_

He figured affection was fickle and that maybe this was karma for all the times he took pleasure in Motoya’s failed romantic endeavors. Otherwise, how else was he supposed to explain this… this _crush?_

Speaking of Motoya: “You _what?”_

He immediately wanted to hang up. 

In the middle of his routine Sunday cleaning, Motoya had decided that this was the most inconvenient time of the day to reel Kiyoomi in for a lengthy discussion regarding the effectiveness of tropes within the nutjob world of otome games, but he probably hadn’t expected Kiyoomi to blurt out his latest revelatory dilemma over the phone like he had returned to junior high and was suddenly asked what 2+2 was in the middle of class and accidentally shouted 7 because he had no fucking clue what page they were on.

Kiyoomi gripped his mobile like he planned to squeeze it to death as he sat on the bathroom toilet with his cleaning whisk still in hand. “You heard me. I don’t need to repeat myself.”

“Just... _what?”_ Motoya asked incredulously. 

“Forget it. I’m hanging up.” 

And he did. Then Motoya called back, and because Kiyoomi had already lost his sanity the day he realized he would rather kiss than kick Miya Atsumu, he answered.

“I don’t _want_ this,” he choked, and his voice was weaker than he had imagined. He had never felt so helpless.

“Oh…” Motoya said over the line, his voice a soft muffle like he had covered his mouth with his hand. “Kiyo…”

And the way Motoya said that, like he was learning Kiyoomi’s grandfather had just passed away in his sleep, it finally made the truth feel _real_.

He had been floating these past few days without an anchor, turning the idea back and forth in his brain as he kept wondering if this was just some cruel prank his mind was playing on him or if he had truly begun experiencing 22 years worth of neglected emotions for the first time since his infancy, but the weight of Motoya’s response was like gravity plunging him back in to reality.

He liked Atsumu. There was no getting around that. But it was what he should do _now_ after learning this fact about himself that distressed him.

“Have you tried talking to him?” Motoya suggested, like they were just chatting about what type of soil he should get for Kiyoomi’s potted fern.

Kiyoomi snorted. He couldn’t even _look_ at the guy without fearing his heart might suddenly implode. So no, he hadn’t talked to Atsumu. And he wouldn’t. Not about this.

“You know”—and it sounded like Motoya was shifting his phone since his voice suddenly grew distant before coming back—“if you’re worried about how the news might react, I don’t think you need to stress about it too much.”

 _Right,_ because a player filing a restraining order against another player on the same team for being gay and in love just didn’t have the same appeal to media vultures as a happy, domestic marriage with a heterosexual, older couple. He could just imagine the headache their PR representatives would have dealing with all the reporters, much less with their avid fan base. 

Though being queer didn’t receive quite the same kind of flack as it used to, that didn’t mean it wouldn’t brew a massive shit storm when it involved two highly public figures, especially with a person like Atsumu who liked to flaunt his social media.

“Okay, fine, maybe don’t make it obvious then,” Motoya said, and he could hear the whimsical shrug in his voice.

He sighed loudly. “Why are you just assuming that _talking_ with him will somehow make this all better?” Kiyoomi asked, holding back the urge to stab his cleaning whisk through the phone. “It’s like you can’t even think of the possibility that he’ll hate me. Much less be okay with the idea in the first place.”

“I _know_ you, Kiyo,” Motoya said. Kiyoomi rolled his eyes. Cue some sappy, mid-afternoon, inspirational speech like this was a child’s after school special. “And honestly, if I weren’t your cousin, I’d drop you faster than you if you were holding a canister with a cockroach on it.” 

Wow. He felt so loved. 

Motoya continued his 23-years-in-the-making speech of childhood resentment. “You’re not nice. You’re a bit of a prick, are _seriously_ high-strung, and you lecture me more about cleaning my toilet bowl than even my own mom does!”

Kiyoomi clicked his tongue as he waved his cleaning whisk pompously. “Aunt was too lax with you. Someone had to do it.”

“And that! _That!_ You’re always so rude! My mom was— _is—_ great! It’s like you _want_ people to hate you,” Motoya exclaimed, and then he gasped. “Wait, you don’t _actually—_ ”

“I don’t need your conspiracy theories, Motoya. It’s a little late for that. Get on with it.”

Motoya sighed. “I’m just saying, if he’s known you this long and has put up with all 999 of your messed up eccentricities so far—”

“Excuse you,” Kiyoomi bristled.

“—then you probably have better chances than you think,” Motoya said. “You’ve got thick layers. You’re a hard person to pry open. I’m impressed he’s managed this far without a crow bar, and that probably counts for something.”

Motoya was optimistic about Atsumu. He believed in a guy he only ever saw from the opposite side of the net far more than however little faith Kiyoomi placed in the guy. It would be nice if Kiyoomi could close his eyes and blindly trust like Motoya did.

“At any rate, treating the guy like he’s the flem you just hacked up probably isn’t helping your chances if you actually want to bone him.”

He groaned. They were _not_ having this conversation. “Motoya.”

“What?! You can’t deny that’s what you wanna do!”

Kiyoomi hated that he didn’t have a retort.

There was a thump on the line, and he could bet Motoya just ran into something. “Aww man, are you _serious?!_ I did _not_ need that confirmed.”

“I hope you get crushed by the Adlers next week,” Kiyoomi said, already planning a shrine visit to ensure the destruction of his cousin. If he was going down, then so was Motoya. He could play dirty as long as it didn’t involve actual dirt.

“Yeah, yeah. Just spare me with some good news that you’ve at least _talked_ to the guy by next week. I’ve just unlocked Eri’s route, and I need a good plant to unload on.”

 _Ah_ , so he noticed.

Then, with the most sobriety either of them had experienced so far within this conversation (which wasn’t saying much), Motoya sighed airily.

“But really. Miya, huh?” he said, like he still couldn’t quite believe it. He should get in line. “Well, it’s not the worst choice.” 

The worst choice for Kiyoomi, or the worst choice for Atsumu?

Biting down on his lip, he told Motoya he would think about his suggestion—though not before reminding him once again that he looked forward to betting against the Raijins next week in their game against the Adlers—before hanging up. There was no call back this time as he tossed his phone on the bathroom counter.

He closed his eyes in quiet solemnity. 

Talking to Atsumu, huh? That was hard. It was hard enough turning his now natural inclination to compliment the setter into desperate insults which he prayed Atsumu wouldn’t see past.

He leaned his head back against the tile wall, the fumes of the bathroom disinfectant for once getting to him. His head felt light. 

_Miya, huh?_ Motoya had said.

Yeah. Fucking Miya.

* * *

Arguably, Kiyoomi should have paid more attention to his own upcoming match rather than spend all his time at the shrine praying for the downfall of Motoya’s. 

They were only into the second game of their five game set against the DESEO Hornets on their home turf, and Atsumu and Kiyoomi hadn’t gelled once since it started.

To be fair, they hadn’t been syncing up all week. Ever since Kiyoomi hit his second wave, levelling up from complete douche to utter douche after his phone call with Motoya because he was too much of a coward to confront his feelings honestly, his snippiness had gotten worse and Atsumu had taken the brunt of almost all of it. 

He had always imagined he would be professional about separating his career and personal life, but as it turned out, he was as much of a kid as Atsumu when it came to regressing five years on the court.

After securing a point with a spike Kiyoomi had barely managed to make passable given his tendency to overanalyze and then second-guess, Atsumu charged at him with all the ferociousness of a boar. He grabbed Kiyoomi by the collar and yanked him roughly. 

“What the _hell_ is wrong with ya?!” Atsumu shouted. 

A lot of things were wrong with Kiyoomi—like the fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about how he wanted to shut him up with a kiss, or the fact that when he woke up in the morning his first thought was immediately Atsumu’s beautiful face—but Atsumu had likely meant his split-second hesitation to the setter’s always-perfect tosses. 

Their teammates gave each other wary looks as the game halted abruptly. They probably hadn’t expected their tiff to occur during a game. 

Kiyoomi glared at the setter. He did not appreciate being manhandled. 

“Get back in the game, Miya,” he hissed.

That was the wrong response.

For all that Kiyoomi liked looking at Atsumu’s eyes, the pure, unadulterated rage which burst out of the setter made him flinch.

Atsumu’s voice was a low growl as he pulled Kiyoomi in close—so close he could feel Atsumu shaking with anger. 

“If yer not gonna play seriously, then get off the court. I don’t got time to waste with _scrubs_.”

 _Oh,_ Kiyoomi thought.

That resolution hurt worse than any rejection anybody could have given him.

The ref blew his whistle loudly, threatening to pull out a card if they didn’t break it up right then, and as their teammates tried desperately to pull them apart, Kiyoomi snapped back, swatting their hands off.

Over the speakers, the announcer reported: _“Looks like there’s been an argument on the court between players Miya and Sakusa of the Black Jackals. There appears to be a disagreement about that last hit, scored by Sakusa, which had returned the right to serve back to their team. In the meantime, the Jackals’ coach has called for a time out.”_

As the team began crowding around them in two distinct groups by the bench to keep from an altercation breaking out between them, Kiyoomi realized how close he had been to getting punched. 

Atsumu looked at him like he had just stomped all over the setter. His brows furrowed together tightly, and his nostrils flared violently as he glared at Kiyoomi as if he had just fired a dozen shots at his twin brother.

Like a black hole had opened up and swallowed the earth below him, Kiyoomi suddenly felt groundless.

This was the last straw, wasn’t it? Volleyball was where the setter drew the line. Kiyoomi always knew there was bound to be a time where Atsumu would grow fed up with breaking down the heavy doors he had carefully constructed for himself. With this, Atsumu had no more reason to invest himself in Kiyoomi’s life.

Normally, that would feel good. He’d breathe a sigh of relief as his life returned back to simple normalcy—nights of hanging around in his apartment by himself and eating dinners alone, erasing his mind of the fact that teammates or friends even existed. But now, it just felt incredibly lonely.

After their minute and a half was up, both players were reluctantly put back on the court, and while Kiyoomi had pulled himself together enough to execute plays and dives that shut Atsumu up from calling him out again, he still couldn’t erase the setter’s resentment from his mind. 

Serving, digging, spiking—he repeated these motions until his limbs became like jello. 

Over and over again, until he felt numb.

Feeling numb felt better than whatever Atsumu had made him feel.

The game ended in an easy 3-1 victory for the Hornets.

As the players lined up to shake hands, he was treated to a familiar face across the net when it was his turn to shake Kiyoomi’s hand. 

His old teammate and captain at Itachiyama offered nothing but sincere concern for Kiyoomi as he asked, “Hey, Sakusa. You alright?”

He found it ironic how easy it was to accept Iizuna’s sweaty hand when he had trouble stomaching standing even remotely close to anybody on a good day. 

He felt hollow as he let out a breathy laugh, shocking the older man with a sight even his own mother was rarely treated to.

“I’m fine.” 

* * *

Kiyoomi temporarily blocked Motoya’s number after the libero’s most recent message. 

_I did say you should_ talk _to him, but I didn’t mean spazzing out on the court in the middle of a game in front of all your teammates for the entire nation to watch on livestream._

_Also, I win ✌️ #RaijinsbeatAdlers #payupboi_

Sure, he was being petty by taking out his frustration on his cousin when _technically_ Motoya didn’t do anything wrong this time (although he could easily review a list of instances where Motoya had wronged him by eating chips in their shared hotel rooms during high school and spread the crumbs everywhere), but he was a petty person by nature. It was an all-inclusive package of petty, prickly, and petulant. Also, he needed to make a bank withdrawal.

Thanks to that—and likely because of Motoya’s invisible influence over Kiyoomi’s equally sad bachelor life—the wing spiker now stood shell-shocked, hands shoved in his jacket and mask pulled snugly over his nose after exiting the bank, and utterly horrified upon discovering Atsumu linked arm-in-arm with some bombastic and pretty gymnastics looking girl, acting like he was having the time of his life.

The blond-haired man was laughing at something the girl said before he caught Kiyoomi’s eyes inopportunely and paused mid-smile. 

The world froze. 

Atsumu looked at Kiyoomi; Kiyoomi stared back.

Atsumu’s lips curled like he was preparing to snarl at him, and Kiyoomi didn’t stick around to learn if his prediction was correct. 

He was halfway down the busy shopping district street before he slowed his pace down to something that wouldn’t cause people to think he had just robbed a store or something.

He should have figured Atsumu would already have a girlfriend. Or maybe that was a hook-up partner? The guy had always had a swarm of fangirls, even in high school, so he was never sore for choices. 

But of course. _Of course_.

 _It only made sense_ , he thought sullenly. Because the two of them were just completely different people. They were opposites. For every person that Kiyoomi scared off, there was another Atsumu welcomed with open arms. 

Kiyoomi knew all of this, and yet he couldn’t help the prickly feeling that stabbed at him as he tried to shake off the image of Atsumu laughing with her. They probably hugged easily and kissed easily without concern or fanfare. It was so enviable—that simplicity which automatically came with being an inlier. 

He wanted to throw up.

The cold air bit at the exposed part of his cheeks, and his breathing grew labored as everywhere he turned there were more and more people. His mind raced rapidly.

Rush hour. Crowds. Swarms. 

The buzzing generated by footsteps, phones, and chatter drilled his ears. People brushed and bumped against him, and it was like slime had slicked against the fabric of his armor, pooling inside his lungs until his body gave out from too many shallow breaths.

He couldn’t remember if he had felt good or bad this morning as he left the apartment. The only thing on his mind back then was how he could ignore his cousin while burying the embarrassing events of the previous days. 

He hadn’t even realized he’d been crouching in the middle of the busy street until a comforting voice murmured soothingly in his ears. Something like heavy fabric draped over his head as he blinked up. 

His heart clenched.

“Jeez, thanks for just ignorin’ me like that. Ya couldn’t even say hello?” Atsumu’s voice was deadpan, like he had been conflicted between reprimanding Kiyoomi and wanting to crack a joke, so he settled for a straining, neutral tone. “That part of ya _really_ hasn’t changed.”

Kiyoomi’s sight became tunnel visioned thanks to the jacket as the only thing filtering through the foreground was Atsumu. 

“Relax, it’s clean,” the man said, miffed by the fact that he was now stuck in the wintry air in nothing but a long sleeve shirt and jeans. Atsumu shivered as his breath condensed in the air in front of him like a cloud, and he gripped the collar of the jacket wrapped around Kiyoomi’s head as if he was afraid letting go would mean Kiyoomi running away again. He kept a firm but loose hold on him, even though leaving was the last thing Kiyoomi wanted to do.

They stayed like that for a few minutes. Despite how people started to take notice, began whispering, and stood in groups on the sidewalk while they recorded videos, Atsumu didn’t move. He stayed there for as long as Kiyoomi needed to calm down in the pseudo-embrace of Atsumu’s warm jacket as he himself knelt two feet away while only an arms’ length separated them, though it felt more like an ocean.

There was so much he wanted to say while he had Atsumu’s undivided attention, but he had no way of finding the right words.

He heard Motoya’s annoying voice in the back of his mind, urging him to finally confess everything to Atsumu and maybe also apologize for screwing up their last game. He heard the wild thumping of his heart in his chest as he imagined how nice and how nerve wracking it would be to finally spill the words that had been dangling from his lips ever since he had first witnessed Atsumu as a mustard-haired, wild-punching brat in middle school. 

But this was neither the place nor the time, crouched down on a busy shopping street as the world watched.

Certainly not as he vividly recalled Atsumu’s justified resentment toward him for his half-hearted spiking. And certainly not as he remembered the girl who had been attached to Atsumu’s side only moments prior—of whom, he wasn’t sure why she wasn’t here presently, or why Atsumu had left her behind to chase after him.

When he thought about what Atsumu had consistently had to give up while earnestly trying to build a relationship with him—whether it be a relationship as teammates or between friends—all he felt was his own unacceptable selfishness. 

Which is probably why, despite the inclination to close that measly two feet of distance and finally connect with Atsumu honestly, he stood up and watched his desire die in the cement like weed repellant.

He’d finally calmed down thanks to all the time Atsumu waited patiently with him.

Now that he could breathe without the danger of hyperventilating, he should leave. He should go back home where it was safe and where he could put some needed distance between himself and Atsumu.

Atsumu’s hand dangled in the space between them as he stood up with Kiyoomi, one hand still loosely clutching onto the collar of his jacket.

His heart swelled with fettered affection as he crushed the impulse to take the setter’s hands in his own. It was terrifying how potent affection could be.

Kiyoomi was a blunt person, but he wasn’t brave; he was rude, but even he at least knew when to let up when the game was called.

He unhooked Atsumu’s hand from his jacket as he returned the piece of clothing to the freezing man. His voice was soft and sarcastic.

“Take your filthy jacket back,” he said, though it had none of the bite normally associated with him. A silent “thanks” passed between them, and he hoped it would be enough for now because he seriously didn’t know if he could live through anything more genuine than that or else he might really combust.

Atsumu scoffed, but there was a tinge of playfulness behind his toothy grin. “So rude.”

Kiyoomi gave the closest thing he could to a smile and Atsumu laughed obnoxiously at his pathetic attempt, yet Kiyoomi felt grateful anyway.

* * *

The change in mood had spread like a happy virus throughout the team. Ever since the shopping district, Kiyoomi had worked hard on biting down his harsh remarks whenever he felt the strong urge to cross the court and compliment Atsumu, and the setter responded by giving him tosses that sang when he spiked.

Unfortunately, others took his tamer nature as an invitation to crowd in closer like he was an animal returned from the shelter.

Bokuto and Hinata were the worst offenders. They zipped around like bumblebees, bouncing on their heels on the courtside like they were attempting some ritual dance around a campfire as they circled him with glitter in their eyes while Kiyoomi zipped up his sports bag.

“Stop that,” he hissed. But honestly at this point, he just felt exhausted after long hours of volleyball practice and attempting to reign in his discomfort. 

“Ooh! He didn’t bite my head off!”

“Hey, hey, Shouyou! Look! My self-esteem’s still intact!” Bokuto exclaimed, patting his entire body in case some of his inflated ego had accidentally escaped and he hadn’t noticed.

Exactly how bad had Kiyoomi been for _this_ to be considered a mild improvement? 

Aside from the two oddballs, Germ 2 and Germ ½, everybody else had had a better-tempered and more _subtle_ reaction to the shift in Kiyoomi. 

Well, those two and except maybe the number one reason why Kiyoomi’s mood had shifted in the first place. 

Atsumu slung an arm around Hinata since if he tried to do the same with Kiyoomi, Kiyoomi might _actually_ bite his head off. He wore a cheeky grin on his face that Kiyoomi immediately wanted to punch.

“Guy pretends to be like a wolf, but he’s just a shy shiba on the inside. Ain’t that right, Omi-Omi?”

As the curl of Atsumu’s lips naturally drew upwards in a wide smile, Kiyoomi learned it was entirely possible to want to punch _and_ kiss the life out of someone. 

Huh. How about that? 

Consider him whipped, as Motoya would put it.

He gave a dead stare. “Either way, I still have sharp teeth, and I’m not afraid to use them, Miya.”

“ _Oh?”_ Atsumu purred—he fucking _purred_ —and Kiyoomi nearly lost his shit right there. “I’d like to see ya try.”

Blood rushing to his face, he combatted the embarrassment by mumbling a weak “piss off” though it had no real venom in it as he tried hard to not think about the implications in Atsumu’s words.

 _“Anyways_ ,” Atsumu said, ignoring Kiyoomi’s pathetic attempt for a comeback. He raised his pointer finger at him as he asked, “Dinner? It’s just us four tonight, and us bachelors might as well slum it out together.” 

Kiyoomi’s ears perked at the word “bachelors.” Wasn’t Atsumu already seeing someone?

Groaning, Bokuto looked like he was lamenting the world as he shouted, “Gah! Don’t make me feel depressed, ‘Tsum-Tsum!”

 _Right,_ Kiyoomi thought disinterestedly. Girls tended to avoid Bokuto because of his out-of-this-world character, Hinata was impossible to flirt with unless you felt like getting arrested for assaulting a minor, and Atsumu was… Well. 

Kiyoomi narrowed his eyes, his hand brushing against the handle of his duffel bag as he considered his options.

“Is it—”

“Clean? According to the Japanese Health and Safety Standards, yes.” 

“How about—”

“There’s no crowd on weeknights unless we go after the last train of the night.” 

“Are we—”

“Every man for himself,” Atsumu said, his eyes flashing deviously.

 _“Fine,”_ he snarled, slinging his sports bag over his shoulder as if it were a bag of bricks. Did Atsumu have a mind-reading ability or something? Did it just come naturally with twins? What a disturbing thought.

Bokuto and Hinata cheered in the background, flying like turkeys. 

Atsumu’s eyes lit up. 

“But you’re paying,” Kiyoomi blanched, walking ahead of the group as they chased after him while grabbing their own bags. 

“Wha— I _just said_ ‘every man for himself!’” 

“Take it or leave it, Miya.” 

And it was a good feeling when he turned back and saw that Atsumu was there chasing after him, full grin in view.

* * *

The kid stared at him with wide eyes like a goldfish; Kiyoomi, for once, stared back _without_ a permanent scowl etched into his brow.

“Name?” Kiyoomi asked rigidly, holding the kid’s autograph plate in his hand like it was a hospital clipboard.

“S-Sumi,” the kid stuttered. God, he looked like he was on the verge of passing out, but at least it wouldn’t be Kiyoomi’s fault this time if it happened. Or maybe it was. As long as he didn’t have to hear any complaints from management, it didn’t matter. “H-Hirataka Sumi.”

Kiyoomi nodded like the kid’s name was the most interesting piece of news in the world. 

He swirled his name in thick, permanent marker and stylized a short, personalized message before handing it back to the kid who was absolutely glowing at this point.

Sumi bowed until his head nearly collided with the ground before standing straight stiff with tears in his eyes and snot dribbling down his chin. 

Was it a challenge to hold back the inhuman squeal that rose out of the back of his throat like he was dying inside? Yes. Did he somehow manage to reel back in his rapidly ascending spirit as he thought about how that kid’s snot was currently dripping onto the signature Kiyoomi just scrawled? Yes, but only just barely. 

He cleared his throat. “Uh. Thanks for your support.” Then, with a silent resignation as he cursed his teenage self for choosing volleyball as a lucrative career to aspire toward, he mumbled a small “champ” at the end like the world was ending.

Beaming, the kid nodded his head furiously before skipping to tell his mom all about how _the Sakusa_ just called him _champ!_

Huh? What do you know? The word was like magic.

“Well, that’s not something you see everyday,” Motoya said, whistling and hooting at Kiyoomi as he crossed the stadium court with his hands stuffed in his shorts. Disgusting. “Should I take you to a doctor? Have you been infected, Kiyo? Oh, oh! Let me guess! It’s a little known disease called _lov—_ ”

“What was with your receives today? A toddler could hold its arms straighter than you could. What? Did you revert back to preschool? Want me to give you personal lessons while I spike at your face?”

Motoya shivered like a bug just crawled up his shirt. 

How fitting. The libero could finally be reunited with his real family. He could spend his Sundays talking about his precious otome games to a cockroach instead of Kiyoomi’s potted plants for once.

Motoya sighed as he scratched his head. “And here I thought you’d grown just a bit nicer after Miya.”

The name sent a warm, fluttery feeling down his body. The two talked a lot these days. Way more than Kiyoomi would have ever imagined possible if he were to be sent back in time to that first game in junior high. 

Atsumu was an irresistible magnet, and like the north and south poles of two magnetic sticks, Kiyoomi couldn’t help but be pulled in even as he fully accepted that his feelings would never go anywhere.

He smirked, and the horrified expression on Motoya’s face was worth using his limited range of facial muscles. 

“Me? Never.”

* * *

“‘Samu once stapled my eyebrow when I was, like, five. Thought the stitches looked cool, like I was a boxer from a movie, but like hell was I gonna let him get away with it. So I tossed him in a snowbank and left him there thinkin’ he wouldn’t know the way back if he didn’t have me, but the jerk just followed my tracks all the way home,” Atsumu grumbled, pulling up his muffler as he shrank into his giant, puffy coat. His head looked kind of like a donut.

“Smart kid,” Kiyoomi said, nodding in approval. “Unlike you.”

“Hey, I’m smart!”

“Smart people don’t defend their intelligence by yelling in the middle of a street.”

They rounded the station’s corner just as the train was coming into view, and then they started running. 

Once they got on the half-empty train car with seconds to spare—Atsumu sitting down and Kiyoomi awkwardly standing up while avoiding touching _anything_ (which was hard to do since, you know, the train swayed)—Kiyoomi carried on their little game.

He tilted his head as he grimaced at the memory. “Motoya is afraid of geese. He finds their long necks unnatural, but he can never decide whether he wants to strangle them or run away.”

“What about giraffes?” 

Kiyoomi scoffed. “For some _unfathomable_ reason, he loves them.”

Atsumu laughed, and the sound was like wind chimes in the summer. 

God, he was so grossly in love with him. 

He continued. “When we were ten, he dragged me to a pond because he wanted to show off the frogs he’d discovered. Well, a flock of geese showed up, and Motoya got neither his wish of strangling them or running away. He pushed me in the pond and hid in the reeds like he was a sniper ready to shoot up the place.”

“Did he?” Atsumu asked, amused. Kiyoomi pulled up his mask just a little higher to hide the blush creeping up his cheeks.

“No, but that was probably the day I vowed to never let Motoya off the hook,” he said, and Atsumu snickered. 

_This is nice,_ he thought as he listened to the gentle rocking of the train shuffling over miles of railway. There had never been a time in his life when he had been actively interested in learning about another person, and it was a pleasant feeling to know that Atsumu was just as interested in learning about _him._ Atsumu enjoyed trading stories, and Kiyoomi relished Atsumu’s company.

Crossing his arms atop the sports duffel in his lap, Atsumu asked, “Was this around when ya started disliking germs?”

Kiyoomi hesitated. The memory was so long ago now that it had almost faded like the edges of a photograph. “No,” he said, trying to recall when his dislike of germs became so abhorrent he began covering himself and picked up the habit of pushing others away. “This was before then.” 

It was probably sometime in junior high, he concluded, that he started relying on Motoya. 

“So ya weren’t always a freak is what yer sayin’,” Atsumu said, stroking his chin sagely like he had just solved the world’s hardest math problem. 

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes. “So says the man-child,” he said, recalling how Atsumu once stared off with a kid in the middle of the road all because the kid had said Atsumu’s hair had looked lame. Which, the kid had a fair point.

“Don’tcha think life’s just more fun that way? Being like a kid and all?” Atsumu replied nonchalantly, staring out the window. He had a pensive expression as he breathed out. “It ain’t a bad thing to be selfish sometimes.”

Kiyoomi pondered.

Now childishness? Some people thought acting immature equated to innocence and was therefore cute, so sure, that possessed some validity. Case in point was Kiyoomi and his unending adoration for Atsumu even as the setter thought squaring off with an 8 year old was a perfectly socially acceptable thing. 

But selfishness?

Selfishness was when people expected you to be a certain way. Selfishness was when you yourself don’t bend. Selfishness was the thing that uprooted people’s lives because they spend too much time caring about themselves and how the world ought to mold around them while disregarding how others might feel.

Selfishness was wishing desperately that Kiyoomi could wake up one day without the painful love he felt for Atsumu; selfishness was wishing even more desperately for the courage to confess without concerning himself with how it might burden Atsumu; selfishness was the wish and insatiable desire for Atsumu to return those same feelings, despite the near one hundred percent possibility that it would only feel forced in the end. It was a cruel and vicious thing that only left people with feelings of regret and resentment, so no, he didn’t think there was any justifiable reason to be selfish.

Of course, he didn’t share these thoughts.

Instead, he said: “Like the way you are with your girlfriend? It was pretty awful of you to leave in the middle of your date, even if you _were_ too busy chasing down a random teammate you happened to meet on the street all because he didn’t say hello. Are you sure you didn’t leave behind your common sense when you became a hybrid with your childish tendencies?”

To review, Kiyoomi was petty as hell. He hadn’t forgotten about the girl on Atsumu’s arm that day he broke down in the middle of a busy shopping district street. 

It still bothered him to remember the two, snuggling and laughing together as easy as it was to breathe in air. 

But more than that, hearing it directly from Atsumu would help keep his feelings in check and hopefully, with some time, kill it mercifully.

Atsumu suddenly leaned forward in his seat. His eyes were as big as basketballs. 

“I’ve got a girlfriend? Since when?” 

Kiyoomi blinked. The train passed momentarily under a tunnel, making the train car so dark neither one of them could make out the other’s face.

When it reemerged to the bright, blinding sun, he averted his eyes from Atsumu’s.

“The girl from that day in front of the bank,” Kiyoomi bristled. His heart raced as he shoved down his bitter vexation. “Or don’t tell me you go through women so quickly you forget about who you’re even with.” 

It was certainly hard for _Kiyoomi_ to forget. After all, it was a memorable thing when your heart got broken and pieced back together all in the same day by the same oblivious idiot who couldn’t see what a commanding effect he had on Kiyoomi’s person.

Atsumu looked like he was having a mental breakdown as he racked through his brain trying to think of who the hell Kiyoomi was even talking about when he slapped his forehead in hallelujah. 

_“Wait,_ hold on, are ya talkin’ about _my mom?!”_

Kiyoomi jerked.

“What?”

_“What?”_

Kiyoomi would have been grateful if the train had braked at that moment in the middle of their 150 km/h fast zip through the tracks, because it would have presented an accurate depiction of his mind at that moment as it screeched to a petrifying halt.

Fuck, he thought.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck._

That had been Atsumu’s _mom?_

Well, at least that explained why she was so attractive and how she looked just absolutely _perfect_ hanging off the arms of _the_ Miya Atsumu as if they were meant for each other. Good genes ran in the family, he guessed.

He hadn’t realized he’d said that part out loud.

“Oh my god,” Atsumu moaned, sliding down his seat as his soul slipped out from between his lips. “Oh my god. Ya think my mom’s hot. Ya think I’m bangin’ my mom.”

Kiyoomi panicked. “Well, what the hell was she doing in _Osaka?_ Aren’t country people supposed to hole up in the boonies like cockroaches?”

Atsumu flailed his arms wildly. “How the hell did ya arrive at _that?_ She was _visiting_ me! Or what? Are country people not allowed to visit their sons without bein’ accused of familial incest?” Then he gasped loudly as he leaned toward Kiyoomi and said, “Ya don’t actually believe we’re bangin’ our family in the countryside, do ya? Cause I will tell ya right now, that is a _false_ stereotype, and I will go down swingin’ at anybody who insults us. ‘Cept maybe ‘Samu. Take yer cracks at him.”

“Oh god, I can’t handle this right now.”

The train screamed when it got Kiyoomi’s stop, and he was ready to exit this excruciating conversation.

Unfortunately for him, Atsumu refused to let it go and followed him out the doors and down the steps of the train station as he clung to his shadow like a koala.

“Well, why did ya want to know? Why did ya want to know about her?” Atsumu pestered relentlessly.

Kiyoomi beelined down the street and through familiar alleyways as he tried to get away from this _deeply_ _uncomfortable_ topic with Atsumu.

Unlucky for him, Atsumu held on like a bull.

“I felt bad for her, that’s all!” Kiyoomi huffed. His feet had already taken him to the front of his apartment building, a convenient two minute walk from the station. Now he wished he had chosen a farther location, because he had no escape unless he felt like having Atsumu invade his apartment like he did that one drunken night weeks back.

“That smells like a foul lie to me!” Atsumu said, crossing his arms. 

As Kiyoomi made eye contact with an elderly grandmother walking her dog in the middle of the afternoon, he glared at her to _hurry the fuck up and leave_ , because if they were doing this then he’d at least like it to be in the private space of two men standing out in the middle of a cold, winter afternoon on the sidewalk rather than with an audience who would mostly likely—no, _definitely_ —know Kiyoomi since this was where he lived.

At last, with the grandma scurrying off under his incinerating gaze, they were the only ones left in the quiet neighborhood block.

Turning on his heel, Kiyoomi stared straight into Atsumu’s fiery eyes. He was snarky as he said, “Well, maybe if you weren’t such a player, I wouldn’t be so quick to judge the situation.”

Atsumu guffawed. Pacing impatiently, he ruffled the fine gelled parts of his already messy hair. “Is that supposed to be a joke? ‘Cause I play volleyball? ‘Cause if that’s the case, then ya really need to brush up on yer sense of humor, Omi-Omi.” He stepped closer, hunching forward as if he had to bow over for Kiyoomi to reach his height even though Kiyoomi was clearly the taller one. When the hell did he have a Napoleon complex? “Enlighten me, in _what world_ am I _a player?”_

Kiyoomi balled his fists in his pockets. 

Take his pick.

Because he flirted obnoxiously with his fangirls. Because he had probably dated around a lot when they were still in school. Because he was Miya Atsumu and it would only make sense to capitalize on the fact that girls flung themselves at him left and right. 

Because it helped Kiyoomi to believe he was.

He backed up, putting space between them as his face felt hot.

Kiyoomi clenched his jaw. “You just _are_.”

Atsumu’s gaze turned dark as he once again crossed the two feet threshold Kiyoomi had placed between them. “And why does that bother you if I am?”

Kiyoomi paused. 

He could have done any number of things throughout this conversation. He could have made up some excuse about why he specifically remembered that girl from the bank. He could have said, “Yeah, your mom’s hot. Sorry,” and left it at that with the bonus, silent thought that he only believed that because he thought _Atsumu_ was hot. Or he could have just held in his tongue from the very beginning and talked about another one of a whole fucking file of embarrassing dirt he had on Motoya which he had the pleasure of documenting in person as the libero’s default cousin-stuck-for-life.

Yet, instead of all of that, here he was freaking out, and his fucking crush could see right through him.

This was a mistake. This had all been a mistake. He shouldn’t have just gone with the upward flow and expected something like growing close to another person to be a straightforward thing. It was complicated. It was messy. And now he’d just dug himself a hole he wasn’t sure how he would get out of.

So in the face of possibly being outed by the one person he didn’t want to face, what did he do?

He tucked in his tail and darted up the stairs of his apartment and hoped Atsumu’s legs were as fast as they were _not buff_ and looking ready to crush Kiyoomi between them.

Of course, just as the universe had decided for him that the mouthwatering idea of being squeezed between Atsumu’s gorgeous thighs couldn’t be helped, so, too, were Atsumu’s inevitable cheetah legs. 

Atsumu slammed his hand against Kiyoomi’s apartment door just as he was prying it open.

“God, yer such a _brat!”_

 _“I’m_ the brat?” Kiyoomi laughed derisively before sucking in a breath when he noticed how close Atsumu stood to him. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, and his ears were red. If he wanted to, Kiyoomi could probably count all the lashes on his eyes.

“Yeah! Ya are! I’m a brat, but yer a bigger brat! Yer a goddamn, selfish prick ‘cause ya keep runnin’ away even though I already sprinted, like,10 kilometers in practice today!”

Ouch. That hit close to home. Even more so since it was coming from Atsumu, the biggest goddamn prick of them all.

Kiyoomi inhaled sharply. With his hand still latched onto the door handle, he said, “Then why do you keep chasing after me if you’re already so exhausted, you little pansy?”

Childish insults were apparently a thing when caught in the height of emotional hysterics. 

But luckily for him, Atsumu was great at responding with an equally childish retort.

 _“I am not_ —” Atsumu didn’t finish the sentence—probably because he couldn’t actually deny that he _was_ a little pansy for whining about running a few more measly steps that even a toddler could handle, and Kiyoomi took consolation in that little victory. 

Atsumu settled for rolling his eyes as he stuck his tongue out. How mature.

Sighing, he leaned against the doorframe. After a while, he just shrugged and said, “Who knows? Maybe I’m chasin’ ya cause ya look like ya’ve got somethin’ yer scared of.” 

Well, he wasn’t wrong there. 

Kiyoomi was scared of a lot of things. Scared of screwing up, scared of rejection, scared of being disappointed. But most of all, he was scared by the prospect that Atsumu was the first person he had considered letting in—to be the first to witness Kiyoomi at his most vulnerable and still _stay_.

All his life he’s kept others at bay because he didn’t trust himself with the knowledge of the inevitable eventuality that they’ll grow tired of having to concede to all of his strange eccentricities. 

By placing others at a distance, he also put _himself_ at a distance. It was painless that way. Never getting close, never giving an opportunity for the hurt to arise. And lately, all he'd been feeling with Atsumu _was_ hurt. Just not the kind of hurt he’d expected.

He shut his eyes, willing the nightmare to end.

“Ya know, I kind of feel like Kita-san like this,” Atsumu said, sheepishly. It was a good look on him. 

Hold up.

Nightmare -->> resumed.

Who the fuck was _Kita?_

“He was the captain back in my second year,” Atsumu casually supplied, reading the confused look on Kiyoomi’s face. “Kind of a clean freak like ya. Super serious, a bit intimidatin’ like that one teacher ya just don’t want to disappoint. Wanted to take him further in his last tournament, but, well, ya know how that turned out against Shou-kun’s team.”

Kiyoomi scoffed. “What? Are you substituting your pity onto me then?” He really hoped that wasn’t the case. 

“Nah,” Atsumu said, with a tired grin on his face as he crossed his arms. He looked bittersweet like that. “In the odd way he looked out for me, I guess I just felt like showin’ a little love for ya.” 

It was easy to remember Atsumu as the arrogant, blockheaded, and immature punk he had met ten years ago. Part of him wished that Atsumu was still that kind of character—and he was, but he also wasn’t. 

He was surprisingly considerate of Kiyoomi’s need for distance, and he was observant of the things he felt uncomfortable with. While Atsumu could be self-important at times—especially things related to the court—he wasn’t a fickle person. 

He was patient and thoughtful and caring. 

It would be easier to dismiss the Atsumu of junior high because he had felt nothing for the setter then, but Kiyoomi couldn’t do the same to the person standing in front of him. Especially not when the desire to touch him was so intense.

He huffed. “How charming.” 

Curling his fingers tentatively around the brass handle of his front door, he thought about how it would be so easy to fling it open right now and ditch Atsumu. But he already knew he wasn’t capable of doing that.

Atsumu smiled as he fluttered his lashes prettily. “Aww, did I get ya to fall for me a little, Omi-Omi?”

At that, Kiyoomi laughed in his face, because he didn’t really know, did he? How could he? After all, he had already fallen for Atsumu a long time ago.

He was scared of rejection, and he was scared of losing somebody precious, but more than that, he had just been scared of the other side.

Nerves tingled as he ran the words through his head. 

He wasn’t one for speeches or for large events, or even for halls with a population of more than ten—in fact, public speaking freaked the hell out of him—but he could at least manage this much. He owed it to him, really.

He sighed resignedly. “I might actually have to throw out my couch pillow now.” 

And for once, he didn’t shy away from Atsumu’s dazzling eyes.

They were warm. Like the sun, always.

Atsumu furrowed his brow in that cute way that just made Kiyoomi want to kiss his forehead. 

“And why’s that?”

“Because you’re going to sit on my couch, and we’re going to talk, because...” He faltered as his throat closed up. Kiyoomi sucked in a breath, and told himself that the ocean wasn’t that scary. All it was was just a little water, a little cold plunge, and he’d resurface on the other side with a new, refreshing lease on life. And maybe Atsumu would be standing right there, waiting for him like a lighthouse signaling home. “Because I have something to tell you. And I’d like it if you could listen.”

And even though Atsumu raised an eyebrow like he was curious if Kiyoomi had finally lost all his marbles and was planning on kidnapping the setter to run whatever freaky alien tests he did, he didn’t question it. 

Unabashedly accepting. That was what Atsumu was. 

Atsumu was like the flowers that bloomed in spring; Kiyoomi was like the colorful leaves that fell in autumn.

Where Atsumu radiated, Kiyoomi hummed quietly in the background.

As Atsumu pulled, Kiyoomi pushed.

Like the tides, they continued rocking back and forth.

However, as he turned the handle to his apartment and felt the comfortable presence of Atsumu faithfully trailing behind him like the seasons that never failed to return again like a promise, he realized they weren’t so much opposite one another as they were _beside_ one another.

Kiyoomi didn’t know if there would ever be enough space for another person, or if he would ever get over his prickly practice of pushing others away—that was a habit that would take time for him to train out of, and who knows, maybe Atsumu would be fine with that given how surprisingly patient he was with the wing spiker, or if he would even choose to stick around after this—but opening the door and inviting Atsumu inside seemed like a start.

“Hey, Miya.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you liked it, consider leaving a kudos or comment!


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